Chapter 8
I went to the DA's office at 7 AM, hard drives in hand.
The prosecutor, a woman named Sandra Reeves, watched the first thirty seconds of operating room footage, then paused it. Her face was carefully controlled, but I saw her hand tremble.
"Mrs. Hale," she said. "We're going to nail him to the wall."
Within two hours, I was placed in protective custody. A safe house, unmarked car, federal marshals outside my door. The case had escalated beyond local jurisdiction — organ trafficking carried federal charges.
From the safety of that house, I watched the story evolve on screen.
Roman's legal team tried everything. Character assassination — leaked my therapy records, called me paranoid and delusional. They claimed the marriage was troubled, that I'd fabricated evidence in a custody dispute. We had no children, so that fell apart fast.
Then they tried a different angle. Roman released a public statement, filmed in what appeared to be a church. He looked haggard, emotional. Oscar-worthy.
"Camille is the love of my life," he said to the cameras, his voice breaking. "I don't know why she's doing this. I think she's having a breakdown, and I just want her to come home so I can take care of her."
Comments flooded in. Some people believed him. *He looks so sincere. Maybe she IS crazy. Why would a rich, handsome man need to harvest organs?*
I felt sick watching strangers debate whether my scars were real.
But then the operating room footage leaked. Someone — I suspect Derek — sent it to every major news network simultaneously. And there was Roman, calm and composed, sipping his coffee while my unconscious body was cut open.
Public opinion flipped overnight.
The comments now: *Monster. Psychopath. How did no one notice for three years? That poor woman.*
Roman went silent after that. His lawyers withdrew the statement. His company board voted to remove him as CEO.
But still — no arrest. He'd vanished completely.
Three days passed. I barely slept. Every noise outside the safe house made me flinch.
On the fourth day, Sandra Reeves called.
"We found Elise Montague," she said. "She wants to testify against him."
"Is she okay?"
"She's alive. He attempted the unauthorized procedure, but the facility staff intervened when they saw the news reports. She's weak but stable." A pause. "Camille, she's been talking. She says there were others before you."
The floor dropped out from under me.
"Others?"
"Roman's first wife. Disappeared four years ago — presumed to have left the country. Elise says Roman told her the first wife was 'no longer useful.' She thought he meant divorce."
No longer useful.
"Are you saying—"
"We're opening an investigation. Her name was Margot Hale. No one's heard from her since 2019."
I sat in the silence of that safe house and realized: I wasn't Roman's first harvest.
I was just the first one to survive.
The prosecutor, a woman named Sandra Reeves, watched the first thirty seconds of operating room footage, then paused it. Her face was carefully controlled, but I saw her hand tremble.
"Mrs. Hale," she said. "We're going to nail him to the wall."
Within two hours, I was placed in protective custody. A safe house, unmarked car, federal marshals outside my door. The case had escalated beyond local jurisdiction — organ trafficking carried federal charges.
From the safety of that house, I watched the story evolve on screen.
Roman's legal team tried everything. Character assassination — leaked my therapy records, called me paranoid and delusional. They claimed the marriage was troubled, that I'd fabricated evidence in a custody dispute. We had no children, so that fell apart fast.
Then they tried a different angle. Roman released a public statement, filmed in what appeared to be a church. He looked haggard, emotional. Oscar-worthy.
"Camille is the love of my life," he said to the cameras, his voice breaking. "I don't know why she's doing this. I think she's having a breakdown, and I just want her to come home so I can take care of her."
Comments flooded in. Some people believed him. *He looks so sincere. Maybe she IS crazy. Why would a rich, handsome man need to harvest organs?*
I felt sick watching strangers debate whether my scars were real.
But then the operating room footage leaked. Someone — I suspect Derek — sent it to every major news network simultaneously. And there was Roman, calm and composed, sipping his coffee while my unconscious body was cut open.
Public opinion flipped overnight.
The comments now: *Monster. Psychopath. How did no one notice for three years? That poor woman.*
Roman went silent after that. His lawyers withdrew the statement. His company board voted to remove him as CEO.
But still — no arrest. He'd vanished completely.
Three days passed. I barely slept. Every noise outside the safe house made me flinch.
On the fourth day, Sandra Reeves called.
"We found Elise Montague," she said. "She wants to testify against him."
"Is she okay?"
"She's alive. He attempted the unauthorized procedure, but the facility staff intervened when they saw the news reports. She's weak but stable." A pause. "Camille, she's been talking. She says there were others before you."
The floor dropped out from under me.
"Others?"
"Roman's first wife. Disappeared four years ago — presumed to have left the country. Elise says Roman told her the first wife was 'no longer useful.' She thought he meant divorce."
No longer useful.
"Are you saying—"
"We're opening an investigation. Her name was Margot Hale. No one's heard from her since 2019."
I sat in the silence of that safe house and realized: I wasn't Roman's first harvest.
I was just the first one to survive.